The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  "The truth," she flung over her shoulder. She did not stop, and he made no effort to catch up to her.

  'A few hours later, Jill sat on the side of her bed, staring at the electric heater someone had turned on for her, having put on gray sweats and a white T-shirt, her standard wear for sleeping in cool weather. She did not want to go to sleep, even though she was exh^sted. She did not think she had ever been more tired, in fact. But she was afraid to dream about Kate.

  She and Alex had had a quiet dinner, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. They'd drained a bottle of fabulous red wine—a 1982 Chateau Margaux—^before their first course had even arrived. The tension that had arisen between them earlier that day—or perhaps even days ago— had not been dissipated by the effects of the alcohol. If anything, it had increased. The silence had become heavy, awkward. Alex had then opened a 1961 Lafite. Jill had never in her life tasted such an intense yet vefvety smooth wine. They had finished that bottle, too, again hardly exchanging more than a word or two.

  Jill had found herself wondering about Alex's private life—something she should have no interest in. They had both refused dessert, and had sipped decaffeinated espresso in more silence before saying good night and going their separate ways.

  She had expected him to make a pass at her; to kiss her at her door. He hadn't. Jill had only been partly relieved. She found his behavior more than odd, it was highly inconsistent. She could not figure him out. Worse, there was no mistaking her own disappointment.

  Jill gave it up. Instead, she concentrated on the fact that somehow Hal had led her here to this place in time—his family home in northern Yorkshire, with Alex, in the spring of 1999, searching for the truth about Kate. She had died shortly after her disappearance in October of 1908. Poor, poor Kate. The questions had haunted her since she'd found Kate's grave—what had happened? Why had it happened? And who was responsible for Kate's death?

  She had only been eighteen, so it was logical to assume that she had been murdered. Recalling her terror and the way she had been pleading with someone in her dream, Jill felt sick and shaken. Had she been begging for her life?

  Had Edward killed her?

  It was the most horrible of thoughts, and Jill knew she should not speculate, not yet, it was too soon and it was hardly fair, in fact, it was monstrous.

  Jill could not imagine Kate demurely accepting the position of mistress. Jill felt that she knew Kate. She had been a woman of passion and courage. She would have fought for her love. She would never have accepted Edward turning to another woman.

  And that woman had been her dearest friend.

  Jill was sick. The betrayal of Edward and Anne must have been monumental—if Kate had ever learned of it. Jill hoped she'd remained oblivious.

  And Jill could not help identifying with Kate. She had been an outsider, no matter that she was an heiress, while Anne had been the perfect, suitable choice for a bride. Jill was furious at the thought.

  Her determination had never been stronger. Jill reminded herself that she needed proof that Edward had been her lover, no matter that she was certain that he had been just that. She needed more than the mere recollections of Janet Wit-combe—as told to her by Anne. She needed hard evidence. As soon as she returned to London, she would get a copy of Edward Collinsworth's handwriting, and have it compared to Jonathan Barclay's signature. It would be a coup if their handwriting matched.

  Barclay. The name bothered her again. Hadn't she heard it, or come across it, somewhere, recently?

  Jill wished she had a sleeping pill. Or another drink. Even though she'd kept up with Alex glass for glass, which meant she'd consumed an entire bottle of red wine herself, her mind continued to race, and she was still afraid of another nightmcire.

  She stood, paced to her door, cracked it. Alex's closed door faced her. Was he asleep?

  She did not move, remembering the way he had pulled her into his arms and held her at Kate's grave. She wanted that recollection as much as she had wanted her recent, earlier speculations about his personal life.

  She thought about the expression on his face when he'd looked at the nude photographs Hal had taken of her. What had that intense gaze, that blush, meant?

  Jill slipped into the hall. She couldn't help glancing at Alex's closed door as she passed it. She heard no sounds coming from the other side, for he was probably asleep by now. But then, he was not trying to unearth the truth about one of his ancestors who had mysteriously disappeared and died at the age of eighteen.

  Jill went downstairs. The hall was lit, as were the stairs, but the ground floor was mostly dark and filled with flickering shadows. She asssumed that everyone in the house was asleep.

  Jill approached the library. Her strides faltered. The door was open, lights were on.

  She saw Alex sitting on one of the sofas, sprawled out, a glass of brandy in his hand. He was staring at the fireplace, his back to her. He had not made a fire.

  His head turned. "You, too?" He was wry. His mouth quirked very slightly. But his blue eyes were questioning.

  Jill wet her lips. Her pulse seemed to have increased. She had already folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I'm afraid to sleep."

  He accepted that, she saw it in his eyes. He stood, went to the sideboard that served as a bar, and poured her a brandy. Jill accepted it.

  "Why are you afraid?" he asked after she had taken a long, heated sip.

  "I don't want to dream about Kate in terror and begging for her life to be spared."

  His jaw flexed. "Is that what you think you dreamed last night?"

  She nodded.

  "That would make you psychic, wouldn't it?"

  "Yes," Jill whispered. "I have to call KC and ask her what this means. God, I'm exhausted. But my mind won't stop."

  "You're overtired—and overwhelmed," Alex said flatly. He was holding his own brandy glass, and Jill noticed his knuckles whitening.

  Jill thought about how easy it would be to step forward and lay her head in the crook where his neck met his shoulder. It would be so nice to be held by him again.

  Then she realized she was only lying to herself. And not very convincingly at that. She wanted more than an embrace, even if she could not trust him entirely.

  Jill met his gaze. Something darkened in his eyes. He turned away, moving himself back to the couch, where he sat down, his back to her.

  He knows, Jill thought, trembling. He knows, but now he's the one distancing himself from me. Jill couldn't understand why.

  Forcing herself to take a few deep, even breaths, she walked around the side of the sofa and sat down. He did not speak. She sipped and finally said, "Do you want to be alone?"

  "No. That's okay." His smile was forced and it failed.

  Jill studied her glass.

  "Are you okay?"

  She met his gaze, and saw that his blue eyes were trained upon her. "Not really."

  "It's been a tough day."

  "Yes." Jill stared at her brandy. That was an understatement. "The photographs," she said on a breath.

  He was staring at his drink, perhaps avoiding her eyes. "What about them?"

  She regarded him. "In that first one, I looked just like Kate."

  "I saw that."

  She started, her drink sloshing over the rim. "You did? You didn't say anything."

  "I hadn't realized you'd noticed." His gaze slipped from her face to her bare arms, to her hands; then it slid away.

  Jill did not know what such a glance meant. Her T-shirt was sleeveless; it was hardly a big deal.

  Alex shifted in his seat. "What does that mean to you?" he finally said, his tone filled with caution.

  She set her glass down. "Isn't it obvious?"

  "No. It's not obvious," he returned very slowly.

  "Don't you remember that his last dying words to me were..." She stopped. Their gazes locked. "I love you . .. Kate."

  "You misheard." There was no hesitation. His tone was flat.

  "I didn't mi
shear," Jill whispered, still holding his regard.

  His hand gripped her shoulder. His eyes blazed. "What are you saying? That Hal mistook you for a woman who died in 1909?"

  Suddenly the space between them had narrowed to mere inches. She did not know who had moved closer, her or him. And he was angry. Why? And was he angry with her or with Hal? Jill didn't dare ask.

  He dropped his hand. Suddenly he looked away, cursing. "I told you once before, Hal was an escapist," he said roughly. "He knew who you were."

  Jill was frozen. Desire warred with a vast trepidation and the need to know. With a very real fear. "Did he know that I am Kate Gallagher's great-granddaughter?"

  He stood, his gaze shifting. "I don't know. How would I know? We don't even know that you are Kate's great-granddaughter." His gaze locked with hers. And abruptly he said, "-One of us should leave, go back to bed."

  She also stood. "Not too long ago, you came on to me like a Mack truck."

  He stared at her. "Like a Humvee," he finally returned.

  Jill smiled. "I stand corrected." And then her amusement vanished. "Alex," Jill said slowly. Ignoring the small warning voice in her head.

  He continued to stare. His jaw flexed.

  Why didn't he make a move? They were both drunk, or at least she was, and it was very late, the night outside was

  black and starless and heavy with fog, and no one would ever know. It had been so long. She needed this, him. Alex in his faded tight jeans and soft, fitted sweaters. But he did not make a move. He did not even speak.

  Jill turned, drank a third of her brandy. And she faced him again. "You're making this very difficult." She cleared her throat. "Do you want to go upstairs?"

  "Upstairs."

  Jill could not believe what was happening. He was very clever, and very astute. He knew what she meant. He was nq idiot—even if he was acting like one.

  "Are you going to reject me?" she asked, trying to smile, trying to be nonchalant—and failing on both counts.

  Alex gazed at her—and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Do you even know what you're doing?" he asked harshly.

  She took a step back. "Of course I do. I'm a big girl—"

  He cut her off. "You're a live wire, a bundle of nerves, and unless I miss my guess, you are very, very vulnerable right now." He stared.

  Jill realized he was rejecting her, and she backed away, shocked, hurt, confused, stunned. "You don't want me?"

  "I want you. A lot more than a few days ago. But you don't want me."

  Jill could not even think of a reply. "No," she whispered, afraid he was right. "You're wrong."

  "I like you, Jill," he said grimly. "I'm also a damn good judge of character. You're not fast. You don't want a one-night stand. You're a romantic, and don't try to bluster and tell me otherwise. Tomorrow—God only knows what you'd be like. You're not ready for this. You're not ready for me."

  On some level, which she did not want to face, she knew he was right. She didn't want a one-night stand, dear God, but there was no alternative. Any alternative was impossible.

  "Jill," he said, his tone softening. "I'm not trying to hurt you. But I can't take advantage of you."

  "Oh, God," Jill said, feeling sick. "I have just made a

  complete fool of myself!" She managed a sickly smile. "Good night."

  "No, Jill, wait. You haven't—"

  But Jill didn't stop and she didn't listen. She dashed out of the room.

  Sixteen

  J

  ILL TRIPPED AS SHE FLED UP THE STAIRS. ShE WAS ON THE

  landing when she realized he was behind her—his hand caught hers, halting her in her tracks.

  "Jill," he said, "stop."

  Jill froze, her back to him, afraid to face him and more upset than she had any right to be—except that her life had somehow spiraled seriously out of control. She was chasing a dead woman and she was chasing a guy who was way out of her league. What was wrong with her? What was happening to her?

  He turned her around. "Let's not end the evening like this," he said roughly.

  "I owe you a big fat apology." She managed a smile, knew it was ghastly. "I am so tired, so confused, and I'll admit I'm a wreck. I've never come on to a guy before."

  "You are a wreck," he said, as softly, but his hands continued to cup her shoulders. Jill became aware of his grip and renewed tension filled her. Their eyes held.

  He didn't smile. "I don't want an apology. We're adults. We're attracted to one another. That's life. It's just more complicated than it should be."

  Complicated, Jill thought, aware now of the one or two inches separating them, of his hands, and even aware of the heat emanating from his lean body. She knew why it was complicated for her, but why was it complicated for him?

  Neither one of them spoke, and neither one of them

  moved. Then he grimaced and dropped his hands from her shoulders. "I'm not really good at this," he said.

  Jill met his gaze. Her heart was thudding inside her breast, slow and heavy. She wet her lips. "What does that mean?"

  "It means that when I'm alone like this with a woman I like, I let nature take its course. But I don't like what's happening here. You've been through hell, and now you're obsessed with Kate. It's like you have a sickness. I'm worried."

  And the worry was there in his blue eyes. Jill's heart turned over while it melted and the tension inside of her increased. "I'm not obsessed," she whispered. "I can't explain my gut feelings, or what happened in the tower, or why Hal has led me here, with you, but I just want to belong somewhere, Alex. I know if anyone can understand that, you can."

  He stared.

  Jill sensed he was torn—and an instant from either moving away, putting a safer distance between them, or moving closer. Hardly thinking about it, she leaned forward, eyes closing, laying her cheek against his chest.

  The cashmere felt so soft. But the body beneath it was strong and hard and potently male. Even his heart was strong. She listened to its steady rhythm, eyes closed, aware of him beginning to tremble, aware of something crazy and wild and dangerous forming inside of her, overcoming her. She was breathless. And an insistence was there, building inside of her, and it was hot and sexual.

  It only took him a split second to react. His arms went around her, hard. He buried his face in her hair. "You smell so good," he whispered, "like the rain. Damn it, Jill, you feel so good."

  Jill had barely assimilated his words when he wrapped one arm around her, tilting her face upward with his other hand—his mouth coming down on hers.

  Their lips brushed, once, twice, while Jill's heart tried to burst right through the walls of her chest.

  He ended the kiss. Their gazes collided. He said, "Tomorrow, there are going to be a helluva lot of regrets."

  Before Jill could agree, he kissed her openmouthed and

  wet and suddenly she was off of her feet, suspended in his arms, and he was shoving open her bedroom door with his shoulder. An instant later she was on her back in the bed, and he was there, on top of her, his hard groin pressed against hers, moving against her with real insistence and urgency. Their mouths locked.

  The kiss was out of control. No one had ever kissed Jill this way before, and it crossed her dazed mind that he really wanted her—that no one had ever wanted her so much, so badly, before. Not even Hal.

  Their tongues met^and sparred. One of his hands slid over the fleece covering her crotch, an instant later his fingers were inside her sweats, beneath her bikini underpants.

  Jill gasped in shock and pleasure as he touched her repeatedly, finally cupping her, hard and possessive, fingers splayed.

  Jill caught his head in her hands, ending the wet, rough kiss, shaking, dazed. Thinking, I can't wait.

  "Yes, you can," he said roughly. •

  Jill realized she'd spoken her thoughts aloud and their gazes locked, his blue eyes pale and starkly wild. His forefinger brushed her clitoris. Jill could not move. She could only pant—a
slave to her own labored breathing and her body's fierce exultation. Alex smiled at her, his gaze on her face, watching her every response.

  "Oh, God," Jill whispered as he manipulated her again and again, so expertly.

  Suddenly he withdrew his hand; an instant later Jill felt him pressing her palm against the erection straining his fly. Jill felt the huge head bulging beneath the denim and she fumbled frantically with his zipper. "No, now," she heard herself cry.

  Alex tore the soft sweats from her body along with her underwear. Jill wrenched open his jeans and shoved them down his hips. She reared upward, touching her tongue to the cotton fabric of his briefs where they covered his distended penis, wanting to touch her tongue to him.

  He ripped off the briefs and moved over her face giving her what she wanted—Jill tasted him, all of him, sucking him

  deep. She tasted salt and sweat and semen. Something inside of her burst and she felt herself begin to cry, but the sobs were not from pain, they were from need.

  Jill came.

  "Christ!" Alex spread her thighs and thrust into her. Instantly, Jill's contractions spiraled, heightening.

  She'd never climaxed so quickly, so shamelessly, before. She was still convulsing when she felt him pull out, lift her hips, and bury his face there. His tongue flicked over her and another shattering orgasm formed in the wake of the last one.

  She couldn't move, and not because his grip on her thighs was viselike. "Oh," Jill whispered as Alex moved over her again with the intention of penetrating her.

  He sliced deep. "I'm the one who can't wait," he said thickly, pausing to watch her.

  But she only glimpsed his strained face and eyes vaguely. She was still throbbing from her second climax, and he was hard, slick, powerful, inside of her. Shocked, Jill realized the urgency that had- never quite died was building again. He moved.

  Jill gripped his shoulders as if holding on for her very life—and maybe she was. He was still wearing the sweater and the cashmere was soaked through. Every muscle and tendon was clearly outlined by the wet wool. Suddenly he pulled her close, going deep and deeper still, holding her close, throbbing within her, and Jill felt the cliff coming, began to plunge and fall recklessly ag2iin.